When I Think Of You
by Joodiff
Summary: Boyd's driving back to London alone; Grace is home alone. Maybe there's a little too much time for thinking...? Rated T/M for language and adult themes. Complete. Enjoy!


**DISCLAIMER: **I own nothing.

**Warning:** _Rated at a high T, but the theme is most definitely adult – some readers may feel it's closer to M._

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><p><strong>When I Think Of You<strong>

by Joodiff

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><p><strong>Him<strong>

It's already late and he's only halfway through the long drive back to London, but – surprisingly – Peter Boyd isn't bothered by the grinding tedium of extended motorway driving. He drives swiftly and steadily, never losing focus on the slowly decreasing traffic around him but also letting his thoughts go where they will. He thinks of the four-day policing conference in Manchester he's just grudgingly attended, he thinks of the specialised investigative unit he commands back in the capital, and their current workload; he thinks of tedious, mundane things like budgets and staff appraisals. He thinks of his junior staff and his more immediate colleagues and slowly, inevitably, his thoughts turn to Grace, the woman who is far more than a personal friend and far, _far_ more than just a colleague.

It's not usually in Boyd's nature to be particularly introspective about his… romantic entanglements. He's far too old and jaded to be overly sentimental about women – in fact, after so many years and so many failed relationships, he's generally very cynical about them. Not misogynistic – Boyd likes women, he likes them a _lot_ – just rather cynical. Grace, though… Grace Foley is different. Very different, in very many ways. For a start, she's got a few years on him, and that's unusual, given that he has a somewhat infamous penchant for women considerably younger than himself, but over time he's become firmly of the opinion that unusual isn't necessarily a bad thing. Certainly not where Grace is concerned.

It shouldn't work. Him and her. It shouldn't work, but somehow it does. Most of the time.

Once Boyd crosses the artificial boundary of the M25, it won't be his house he aims for, he already knows that. It will be hers, even though he's beginning to accept that it will be gone midnight by the time he finally steps out into the crisp spring night and stretches his already aching back. Grace will complain bitterly about the lateness of the hour, of course, but Boyd has considerable faith in his ability to break through her annoyance in fairly short order. For all her many strengths, she has a few notable weaknesses – deep dark eyes and a deliberately hangdog expression being one of them – and he never thinks twice about exploiting them, personally or professionally.

He finds himself dwelling on his potential tactics with a little more enthusiasm than is probably seemly for a man of his age and he tries – briefly – to martial his recalcitrant thoughts, to force them in a more suitable direction. He fails. He fails dismally. Imagining what he's going to do to her when the front door is closed against the world has a bad effect on his equilibrium. And his concentration. Not keen on the idea of accidentally ploughing into another vehicle at more than a little above the national speed limit, Boyd determinedly exerts some self-control, and for a while he goes back to thinking about all the mind-numbing administrative tasks that will require his attention in the morning whether he likes it or not.

Thoughts much more befitting a senior police officer in his late fifties. But, damn, it's too easy to think about how soft her skin is and how much he wants to…

It's ridiculous. A man of his age. But in his head he's still about twenty-five and as horny as…

Boyd puts the radio on. Drops the driver's window a little. Anything to help keep temptation at bay.

It's still ridiculous.

Won't stop him taking her by the hand and…

Oh, for God's sake.

What _is_ it about her, anyway?

Everything.

Not helpful.

Think about the damned budget cuts handed down from on high, the ones that are already starting to bite. Much, much safer. Quite literally, in fact, given the formidable size of the lumbering articulated lorry Boyd is currently overtaking.

It's a damned shame he's still so firmly out of favour at Scotland Yard, he thinks gloomily, otherwise he could perhaps have eventually wrangled some of his sharply reduced budget back. Very little chance of that since the whole Linda Cummings debacle. And, damn bloody hell, he really, really needs to get on and do something about finding a replacement for Kat Howard before his superiors start hounding him about it. Not a task Boyd has any enthusiasm for, though admittedly it's something of a novelty for the CCU to be losing a junior officer under happy circumstances. Maternity leave, no less. Definitely a first. Boyd seriously doubts that once Kat leaves the basement she'll ever come back. But maybe that's okay. Christenings are less traumatic than funerals to attend by a long, long way.

Flashing blue lights appear simultaneously in all mirrors, and Boyd takes his foot off the Audi's accelerator immediately. He's far too wily to give them the satisfaction of sudden brake lights. There's no honour amongst thieves – or police officers from rival forces. He knows _exactly_ how much joy it would give the good officers of Bedfordshire to nick a Met Super for speeding on their patch. He stays where he is, quietly tucked up in the inside lane, and only puts his foot back on the accelerator when the speedometer registers a sedate sixty-eight miles an hour. The blue lights stay on, but the big traffic car slows very deliberately for a few moments, prolonging the overtake. They've run his vehicle registration, no doubt about it, and they now know the Audi belongs to the Met, and who should be at the wheel.

Suspicious bastards.

He studiously ignores them, and eventually they speed up again and head away down the long stretch of tarmac, off to answer whatever shout has provoked the use of all lights.

Boyd's car has blue strobes, too. Mounted under the bonnet behind the dark Audi's arrogant chrome sneer. Don't see much use. Cold cases rarely call for exciting cross-town dashes or adrenaline-filled pursuits. Old bones, cold bones. The CCU's forte is science, methodical hard work and maybe just a touch of witchcraft. Or "psychology", as Grace likes to call it.

Grace.

Damn.

She's so deep inside his head. Not to mention his weary heart.

Boyd suspects she will be his last great folly. Can't see himself ever walking away from her, not now. Or her from him, come to that, despite his many faults. Maybe they're both just too old, too set in their ways to start afresh elsewhere. Maybe they've just slowly grown into each other over all the long years.

But it's not that simple, of course. If it were, he would already be bored and restless. And he's not. Not at all.

Briefly, Boyd considers calling her. Only considers it. There's still something very rebellious in him that baulks at the idea of doing something so mundane and predictable – and because she is Grace and she knows him very well indeed, she won't resent the silence, won't be at all surprised by it. Perhaps he'll call her because of that. Double-bluff. Won't work – she won't be surprised by that, either. Triple-bluff.

She drives him crazy.

Categorically.

He honestly believes he's a very simple man at heart. A simple man with simple needs. Food, drink, sex, sleep, work. Love, maybe.

Grace is not simple. Nothing she says or does is _ever_ simple. And, God, he's never known another woman so adept at quietly moving the goalposts behind his back.

But he's not bored.

Maybe he _will_ call her. Maybe he'll call her and tell her everything he's going to do to her behind closed doors.

_With_ her. One does not do things _to_ Doctor Foley. Well, _occasionally_ one does. When one is feeling particularly alpha in one's maleness. And sometimes Doctor Foley quite clearly likes that.

A lot.

In fact, sometimes Doctor Foley –

Oh… shit. Boyd shifts uncomfortably in the driver's seat and mutters to himself. No, no, no. Not good.

Oh, for fuck's _sake_…

He's far, far too old to be getting a hard-on driving down the bloody motorway. Budget cuts. Budget cuts. Budget cuts.

Maybe he'll just kick the door shut behind him, push her up against the wall and have her there and then in her damned hallway.

Really _not_ helping.

It's voodoo. That's the answer; she's Marie Laveau reincarnated. That's how she does what she does to him. Bloody voodoo. He doesn't stand a damned chance, poor spellbound male that he is. He really should have known that the moment he found out just how easily she could make him purr like a kitten and then howl like a wolf. Damn. Damn, damn, _damn_.

Budget cuts. Budget cuts.

Despite the stubborn mantra, neither the wayward burgeoning of his cock nor the deep, frustrating ache in his balls eases. Far from it. Exasperated, Boyd again fidgets awkwardly in his seat and winces at the enforced and increasingly uncomfortable constriction of his clothing. Too damned tight. Alone as he is in the car, the keen and autonomous biological response to his wandering thoughts is a little… disturbing. He hasn't been a sex-starved teenager since the 'sixties – a faintly distressing thought – and under the circumstances he definitely doesn't appreciate the distraction.

God's sake, what the _hell_ is it about her…?

He thinks he probably knows.

Of course he knows.

Love.

Damn. Damn bloody fuck.

And in defiance of age and common sense he's still got an uncomfortable and unwelcome hard-on just from thinking about her and the things she enjoys doing to him. Life just isn't fair sometimes.

-oOo-

**Her**

It's already late and she guesses he's only halfway through the long drive back to London, but Grace isn't worried because – surprisingly – Boyd is never as bothered by the grinding tedium of extended motorway driving as she is. He will be driving swiftly and steadily, never losing focus on the traffic around him as he makes his way back from the grudgingly-attended four-day policing conference in Manchester. There's no doubt in her mind that he'll eventually find his way not to his own house, but to hers – regardless of the hour. She knows exactly what will happen; she'll complain bitterly – only half for the sake of it – and he'll give her the ridiculously winsome little boy lost look in response, whereupon she will sigh heavily in exasperation and forgive him. At which point he'll give her the _other_ look – the one that never fails to send illicit shivers up and down her spine – and somehow it will all end up in the kind of eager, breathlessly joyful tumble that wouldn't shame a couple twenty odd years younger.

Grace is _sure_ these latter years of life aren't supposed to be quite so riotous or quite so much fun.

Maybe she should take up knitting instead.

Or not.

He's good for her. Not that she would ever openly admit it to anyone, but he is. He's a little younger than she is, and his instinct is still to stubbornly run headlong at life, to embrace his natural impulsiveness and worry about the consequences later. Oh, he's mellowed a little over the years, no question about it, but Boyd still possesses a reckless impetuosity that's completely alien to Grace.

It's _his_ fault, after all, that they're a long, long way past "just good friends".

It shouldn't work. Him and her. It shouldn't work, but somehow it does. Most of the time.

She glances at the clock, ponders whether or not to do the predictable thing and call him. Deciding against it, Grace wanders the house quietly for a few minutes, absently tidying things from one surface to another and doing all the trivial evening chores that are a time-honoured part of her bedtime ritual. Boyd always shakes his head in amiable despair over her methodical, unvarying routine – it's far too mundane, far too domesticated for him. His approach to such things is much more haphazard, and knowing him as well as she does Grace suspects the only reason he always manages to arrive for work dressed in a clean, freshly ironed shirt is the residual discipline knocked into him as a young police cadet. And how she would have loved to witness that, if Spencer's horror-stories of his own time at Hendon have any truth to them. The idea of a man as insubordinate and headstrong as Boyd being made to don a uniform and march up and down on command never fails to fill her with a very unworthy sort of delight.

Then again, there's something to be said for a man in uniform. Specifically, there's something to be said for _Boyd_ in uniform. A far from common sight – in fact, Grace can count the occasions she's encountered the phenomenon strictly on the fingers of one hand – but one that's very definitely… interesting. Medal ribbons, red superintendent's crowns, silver-braided peaked cap and all.

Not an appropriate line of thought for a woman of her age.

But, damn, he looks good turned out in full uniform. And Boyd being Boyd, he absolutely knows it, too.

One day…

Not appropriate.

She wonders just how persuasive she'd have to be to get a… private viewing.

And how easy those highly-polished silver buttons are to unfasten.

With her teeth.

Oh, for God's _sake_.

What _is_ it about him, anyway?

Everything.

Not helpful.

Knitting would be good. Or crochet. A safe, _appropriate_ sort of pastime for a woman her age. A nice warm winter scarf for Spencer, baby clothes for Kat…

Oh, get a grip, woman. There's old and there's completely bloody geriatric… And there's no doubt in her mind that idly fantasising about playing _undress the policeman_ is a lot more exciting than running the risk of finding out what _knit one, purl one_ actually means.

Bollocks to knitting. And that's a Peter Boyd-ism if ever there was one.

Oh, yes, he's good for her.

Maybe she _will_ call him. Maybe she'll call him and tell him everything she wants him to do to her behind closed doors.

_That_ would get his attention. God, wouldn't it just.

Smirking, Grace lets her eye be drawn towards the phone for a moment. Wickedly tempting.

Of course, he'd probably kill himself trying to break the land speed record.

Not such a good idea, then. But very, very tempting. Like leaning in a bit too close to him by the water cooler when no-one's looking. Or _accidentally_ squeezing past him in the lab and gleefully watching the frustrated dark fire ignite in his eyes. Tormenting him is absurdly dangerous… but incredibly exciting. And the inevitable payback tends to be a _lot_ of fun.

Maybe she'll just wait for him to kick the door shut behind him then grab him there and then in the hallway.

It's sorcery. That's the answer; he's Rasputin reincarnated. There's no other explanation for how he does what he does to her.

Except maybe…

Love.

Grace banishes the thought quickly. Perhaps, yes, she's ready to admit it to herself, but not to _him_. Not yet. Not ever, possibly. The power it would give him over her scares her. Boyd is not a cruel man, but he is too often thoughtless and insensitive, and she's not completely sure she trusts him to be as careful with her feelings as she needs him to be. It's her own fault, of course, for being repeatedly attracted to charming scoundrels who disappear unexpectedly, or to wounded, damaged men who turn out to be emotionally exhausting. And he is a very bad combination of both.

But there's something about him. Something that satisfies a need in her.

In more ways than one…

It's plainly ludicrous, how much Grace often finds herself wanting him. Not at all… seemly… for a mature, experienced woman who's already said hello and goodbye to her sixtieth birthday.

Wait, though – _who_ actually says it's not seemly?

Sometimes all he has to do is give her that slow, inviting grin, the one that shows the tiny, engaging gap between upper incisor and canine, and she's lost. Entirely lost. It's really very infuriating… but, God, she wouldn't change it for anything. Not now. Not _ever_. So what if he's unpredictable, explosive and reckless – aren't those the very things that she secretly finds so attractive in him? Aren't those exactly the things that appeal to the passionate, free-spirited young woman who's still so vibrantly alive in her head? And if they'd met as much younger people…

Again, Grace clamps down sternly on her thoughts. There's no point at all in thinking about what might have been. What they are, what they have, that's all that matters. He's out there somewhere, heading home in the dark, and maybe he's thinking about her as much as she's thinking about him.

Maybe he's thinking about –

Stop it.

Why?

Because it's not appropriate.

_Fuck_ appropriate.

Oh, God, he is just _so_ good for her.

She should go to bed. Boyd will turn up in his own good time whether she goes to bed or not, and she might – _might_ – be able to doze in peace for a while before he wakes the entire street with his incorrigibly loud arrival. The neighbours have given up complaining about the noise her "friend" makes arriving and departing at all hours of the day and night – after all, there's not much to be done when the man in question is a formidable Detective Superintendent with a good line in basilisk stares. No CPSO in their right mind is going to challenge him, no matter how much noise he makes irritably slamming car doors in the small hours.

She _should_ go to bed. She _could_ go to bed. But the way her thoughts are wandering, it might not be the best idea… not with the scent of him on the sheets and on the pillows next to hers. Too distracting. Too tempting. Too likely to fuel the distant edge of arousal that's already well on its way to becoming a deep, needy ache.

God's sake, what the hell is it about him…?

She thinks she probably knows.

Of course she knows.

Damn the wretched, infuriating man.

But she wants him. She _really_ wants him.

-oOo-

**THEM**

What the _hell_ is it about them?

Maybe it doesn't matter _what_ it is. Maybe it only matters that it _is_.

She lashes at him, and her anger at the nonchalant way he simply assumes he will be welcome despite the time is only partly feigned. He does not lash back – he's hellishly tired and he has far more sense than she often credits him with. He takes it, her stinging censure, takes it with a sheepish grin and a glint in his eye. She smells like wildflowers and summer sunshine, and when she pauses for breath he kisses her so impossibly gently that for a moment she has no defence against him at all. So she bites his neck, hard enough to make her intention quite clear. He doesn't need the encouragement.

She likes his impatience, likes his impertinent male strength. He likes the way she follows her instincts, the instincts that are so bold, so wanton. So honest.

There's no pretence.

He smells of the motorway, of fumes and petrol; he smells of sweat and heat and need. She likes it. Not as much as she likes how unashamedly hard he is, how ready he is. How willing he is to do exactly what she wants him to do. He has the muscle, they both have the need. It's good. It's glorious.

It's them.

It's everything that they want. Everything they suspect they _shouldn't_ want.

They don't make it up the stairs. They don't even try.

Anticipation is good. Fucking there and then in the damned hallway is better. Who the hell cares if there's precious little decorum under the bright light, or if he nearly breaks his bloody back trying to bear all her weight as he drives into her with the uninhibited frenzy she imperiously demands?

He bellows and she doesn't give a damn about the poor, inoffensive neighbours. God knows what they think the old folk are getting up to behind closed doors at such an antisocial hour.

What _is_ it about them?

It's everything.

But mostly it's love.

And a healthily inappropriate amount of lust.

But that's okay. They like it. And no-one else matters.

He doesn't ask if she loves him. He already knows.

She doesn't ask if he's missed her. She already knows.

It shouldn't work. Peter and Grace. It shouldn't work… but somehow it does.

_- the end -_


End file.
